Summary: Hello everyone. With the discussion forum down and not all of us having our Ad Astra blogs up and going I thought I would try to create a little round robin story where we can all post a little response to my posited ‘How do we cope when technology fails?' prompt.
Our heroes would have to tackle Star Trek life without the magic of their technology - say no transporters, no replicators, no grav-plates, no warp power, etc. Maybe they find themselves in a crutch, maybe it ends up with some hilarious or fish out of water moments, or puts their lives in mortal peril. Have at it. Remember to keep it clean given the K rating and that this is just for fun to help us while over the absence of the forum.
Just post your prompt response as a new chapter and sign your name to the ‘chapter' you write. Well that's the plan. Fingers crossed as to whether this works! Remember, just write it, don't edit it to death - for this one time on the archive! ;)
Categories: Enterprise, Original Series, Alternate Original Series, Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, Alternate Universes, Expanded Universes, Meta, Essays and Everything Else
Characters: None
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Family, Fantasy, Friendship, General, Humor, IDIC, Other, Romance, Tragedy
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 3
Completed: No
Word count: 1568
Read: 8483
Published: 17 Apr 2012
Updated: 30 Apr 2012
1. Chapter 1 - Miranda Fave - McGregor gets shafted by Miranda Fave
2. Cobbled Together by jespah by jespah
3. Time for tea by David Lowbridge
Chapter 1 - Miranda Fave - McGregor gets shafted by Miranda Fave
My own response to the possible 'when technology fails' prompt: Silly silly fluff (you have been warned):
Captain Gregory McGregor swayed down the corridor. "I'm not rearly as 'runk as you 'rink I am Molly."
She gave a bewildered and besmirching scowl to that assertion. McGregor frowned at the complexity of emotions Molly Cartwright could convey in her wide spectrum of scowls. The only constant was her usual disapproval of his actions and/or behaviour.
"Ish not my fault. All Gordons. How was I 'upposeda kno' it was real alcholmolical?"
"You provided him with the bottle!"
"Bottles! Ten greeny bottles 'itting on a wall. And if one green captain should 'appen to drink 'em all, there'll be no green bottles 'itting on a wall."
"You have a fine singing voice McGregor."
"Fank you. Fank you very much."
She pursed her scowling mouth. "Hmmm. Leave the Elvis impressions to someone else hound dog. It's just as well we're in space dock and on leave."
"Hic! But soon ... we will return to the starrrrrrsssss!" He reached up and out only to fall over. He was splayed flat on his face on the deck with arms outstretched as if flying. "Hic! I'm all shook up."
"Hilarious. Here's your turbolift. Get in and give me peace."
"You're the big boss man. Just don't step on my blue suede shoes."
"When the damn lift gets here just get in and be gone with you." At that the turbolift doors swished open.
McGregor declared to Molly, "Elvis has left the buildinggggggg!" Before he turned and stepped into the turbolift ... except ... the turbolift wasn't there. Instead, a long drop down presented itself before him and he tumbled down. "Tally hoooooooooo!"
There was a sickening splat. And Molly edged towards the door of the turboshaft carefully. She peered down, her beehive hairstyle casting a strange shadow in the light that fell into the turboshaft. She cocked an eyebrow and suppressed a sigh and a scowl.
"Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread, McGregor."
Cobbled Together by jespah by jespah
“September eighteenth, 2152. No, September the nineteenth, 2152. Or maybe it’s the twentieth. Or the twenty-first. Bloody hell, I’ll start again.”
Malcolm Reed sat in his own little personal patch of the NX-01’s catwalk. “Stupid neutronic storm,” he said to no one. “It’s messing with my bloody PADD.”
“What?” asked Sophie Creighton, who had her own personal patch nearby.
“Huh?” asked Colleen Romanov, who was next down the line. And so on and so forth as eighty-some-odd crew members, who were cheek by jowl in the catwalk, could hear every snort, every word, every sneeze and every breaking of wind.
“Nothing, nothing,” Reed said, a bit annoyed.
“Wanna join us in a round o’ poker?” asked Tripp Tucker, coming over.
“What are you wagering?” Malcolm asked.
“Desserts from our ration packs.”
Malcolm had been saving his. For what, he did not know. There was little point to it. It was just something to do, a bit of discipline amidst the chaos of hanging around on top of however many degrees of plasma, just to ride out a neutronic storm. He looked over his stash. Cheese Danish. Cherry cobbler. Chocolate pudding. New York style cheesecake. So it had been four days, and it was the twenty-first. “I suppose I’m in,” he said, smile tight. At the very least, perhaps he could dump the Danish and the alleged cheesecake. Being lactose intolerant, they were of as much use to him as wheels on a rowboat.
Hoshi Sato and Tristan Curtis were also playing. They made room, as much as they could, and he sat down with his stash. Curtis dealt the cards. “Okay, deuces are wild, pretty ladies,” he winked at Hoshi, “are also wild and nothing else. Ante up, one pack apiece.”
Malcolm looked over at his cards. Two fours. An eight. A jack. And the last one was a queen. He tossed in the alleged cheesecake.
The others anted up, except for Curtis, who raised to two packs. “Uh, vanilla ice cream and, er,” he read off the pack, “pineapple cobbler.”
Malcolm kept his poker face but had to admit to himself that he almost unnaturally lusted after the pineapple cobbler. He didn’t even like artificial pineapple, but it was something to strive for. “I’ll see your pineapple cobbler,” he said, tossing the Danish in.
“Too rich for my blood,” Tucker said, tossing his cards down.
Other crew members were coming over. “Hey Sophie,” Rob Slater said, “I got extra room near where I’m sleeping.”
“Yeah, in your dreams, Slater.”
Hoshi said, “I’ll see your Danish and raise you, um, broccoli.”
“Broccoli? One doesn’t normally eat that for dessert,” Malcolm said.
“You do now,” Hoshi said, “It’s all I’ve got.”
“I’ll see your broccoli and raise you a creamed corn,” replied Curtis.
“I’ll match your, ugh, creamed corn with cherry cobbler,” Malcolm replied, wincing at the thought of creamed corn.
“All right,” Curtis said, “read ‘em and weep.” He had three threes.
Hoshi just had a pair of tens. Malcolm turned his cards over. “Two fours, too bad,” Curtis said, starting to rake the packs over to his place.
“Uh, no, Tris,” Hoshi said, “Queens are wild, remember? So I think Malcolm’s got three fours.”
“Huh? Yeah, I guess he does. Sorry, Lieutenant.”
“It’s all right.” Malcolm took the pack of pineapple cobbler off the top and gave the remainder of his winnings to Hoshi. “Here, you won’t have to use broccoli next time.”
He walked back to his cramped little area – everything reeked of eighty-some-odd crew members who hadn’t showered in several days – and consumed his treasure in private.
Time for tea by David Lowbridge
Author's Notes:
A missing scene from between Trial by Fire and The Ruse. Written for anyone who has gotten one of those ready meals only to discover that the microwave has destroyed it and anyone who has ordered takeaway and found their order wrong / incomplete.
Wilcox sat at his desk looking over some of the personnel files for the new positions that he had available on the Nightingale. Everyone on the files had almost the exactly same record, recently graduated or recently completed basic training; very few had actual field experience. Some of individuals had not even been outside of the Sol system. None of them were that qualified to serve on his ship, yet this was all Starfleet was willing to give him. He rubbed his temple in frustration, hoping the small massage will help conjure up some sort of answer to his problem. He sighed when nothing came forward. Turning to his small replicator, one of only six on the whole of the Nightingale he breathed a sigh of relief that at least Earl Grey was now available since the replicators were repaired. "Earl Grey hot," he said pressing a button on the top of the machine, but nothing happened, "Earl Grey hot," he repeated his order.
Then in front of his eye a small mug of steaming liquid materialised, John sighed in relief, at least he had one ally, Earl Grey. Taking the mug he took a sip, noticing a touch of spice in the liquid that started to burn his tongue he spat out the hot liquid. "Computer," he addressed the machine, "I asked for Earl Grey tea, not a Tholian Spiced Coffee." The computer did nothing in return, but blinked its lights on and off as if nothing was amiss. "Computer, let me put this simply for you, hot Earl Grey tea."
The computer again materialised a mug in the machine and Captain Wilcox gave it a quick look, "Well it looks right," he continued to the machine, "Let's have a quick taste." John grabbed the mug and quickly took a sip. This time there was no need to spit out the liquid, at least it wasn't going to end him up in sickbay, "Computer this is English Breakfast; not Earl Grey tea." Wilcox attempted not to get a huff on, "Do I get a refund if I am not completely satisfied?"
"You inquiry was not recognised," the computer replied to John's jester's comment.
"Computer, how many varieties of tea do you have?" John asked.
"There are a total of sixty six thousand four hundred and thirty two varieties of tea that this unit can produce," the computer replied monotonously, unaware of the problems it was causing. "Please give your order."
"A hot Earl Grey tea," John said, stressing the words made him feel better, but the computer probably didn't respond to such emotional responses. A mug suddenly appeared and John grabbed it and smelt the liquid inside, "Computer this is a Raktajino," he announced, "It's not even a tea, its a bloody coffee."
John drew in a deep breath and then hit the replicator squarely in the middle at the top of the machine, "Computer, I want a hot Earl Grey Tea, and I want it now!" he shouted loudly. The machine did nothing a moment and then materialised something that looked about right. John took it into his hand and smelt the liquid, he smelt about right. He then took a sip, instantly spitting it out. "They stewed the tea, it's ruined."
John sat at his desk and pressed the intercom button, "Captain Wilcox to Lieutenant Torlik."
" Lieutenant Torlik here Captain," the chief of operations answered quickly.
"I need a repair crew in my office Lieutenant, my replicator is on the fritz," he ordered.
"They'll be there in five minutes sir," came the reply.
"Thank you Lieutenant, Captain Wilcox out," John turned off the com channel and sat back in chair, five minutes plus repair time without tea seemed like an eternity.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.